in pearl,” comes to the Duke with a cock-and-bull story about an “English poet” who is with the Prince. This is presently supplemented by Julio, who explains that “the boy is lunatic.” His description of the supposed origin of the lunacy is most interesting. “Coming abruptly to the Prince’s chamber about some ordinary service, I found him in his study and a company of bottle-nosed devils dancing the Irish hay about him, which on the sudden so started the poor boy as he clean lost his wits, and ever since talks thus idle as your Excellence hath heard him.” The “studies” of Polymetes, it later appears, are in astrology!
The “true Pretenders”—if the term may be allowed—have on the other hand considerable interest, and are well worthy of attention. Among other things we may take into consideration the intention with which they are portrayed, how far they fulfil that intention, how closely they counterfeit insanity—if any such attempt is really made,—and what worth they have as characters—how nearly, in other words, they resemble men and women.
Beginning at the bottom of the scale, let us take Middleton’s “Changeling,” a play already studied, in which Antonio, the “Changeling” of the piece, counterfeits idiocy, and Franciscus his companion, pretends to be a madman. Their devices, which form the substance of a
somewhat coarse underplot, are not successful. This would surprise nobody; the intention of the author (or authors) being mainly comic relief, little care is shewn and the characters are almost worthless. Franciscus says in the last scene, “I was changed from a little wit to be stark mad”; and Antonio, “I was changed too from a little ass as I was to a great fool as I am!”[169:1] The last statement we can take literally. For, after all, idiocy is fairly easy to counterfeit, and he would be a fool indeed who could not do at least equally well. Franciscus is rather better, and might really be very effective on the stage. He is supposed to have “run mad for love,” and was a “pretty poet” till the muses forsook him. He discourses most appropriately of “Titania” and “flowery banks,” invokes his imaginary mistress, and pledges her in imaginary wine.[169:2] He succeeds in extorting the pity of Isabella with his ravings. The least spark sets him alight; the mere mention of “Luna” is sufficient for him to rhapsodise upon, and he works himself up to a state of violence which has to be calmed by the whip. His snatches of song are equally true to life. But he does not re-appear for any length of time after this scene, and he never again reaches the same level of excellence. Apart from this skill in counterfeit Franciscus appears to have no character worthy
of the name, and is therefore of small importance.
Something has already been said of the shopkeeper’s wife, Tormiella, of Dekker’s tragi-comedy “Match me in London”; here, as in “The Changeling,” and as in many another minor play, the feigned madness is utilised for the plot and makes little difference to the character. We have seen that Dekker has shewn considerable skill in weaving this pretended madness into the plot as well as in introducing it at a favourable place. But the scene is so short, and its place in the play of such relatively small importance, that we need do no more here than repeat that the “feigning” is well done and serves its purpose.
Space may also be found for Dol in Jonson’s “Alchemist.” She goes mad for the benefit of Sir Epicure Mammon in the fourth act of the play, but unfortunately the learned dramatist infuses little probability into her feigning. She is not so successful a lunatic as Quarlous, though her task is certainly less simple. She appears before Mammon “in her fit of raving” to discourse of “Alexander’s death,” the “communion of vowels and consonants,” “Pythagoras,” “the tongue of Eber and Javan” and so forth. The alleged reason for this is given us earlier in the play in a speech by Face already quoted.[170:1]
In the “Honest Whore,”[171:1] Bellafront, for her own purposes, feigns madness. Her pretence is skilful, though Friar Anselmo does not consider her dangerous. “How now, huswife,” he says good-humouredly, “whether gad you?” “A-nutting forsooth,” answers Bellafront, “How do you, gaffer? How do you, gaffer? there’s a French curt’sy for you too.” “Do you not know me?” she enquires. “No,” reply all. “What are they?” asks Anselmo, “come tell me, what are they?” Her answer reminds us of “Hamlet.” “They’re fish-wives,” she says, “will you buy any gudgeons?” At a later stage in the proceedings, she is anxious to tell everyone’s fortunes and demands sugar-plums as a reward. This madness, however, is not without method, for the fortune-telling leads to discoveries and explanations. When at last Matheo, whom Bellafront wishes to marry, declares that if her wits are restored he will consent, she at once reveals her sanity:
“Matheo, thou art mine.
I am not mad; but put on this disguise